


Preservative From Want

by Tequila_Mockingbird



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tequila_Mockingbird/pseuds/Tequila_Mockingbird
Summary: "'Well," said Miss Climpson, "if this is a sin I am going to do it, and may I be forgiven.'" -Unnatural Death





	Preservative From Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mary_West](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_West/gifts).



“Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it.” –Pride and Prejudice 

* * *

 Kitty had pricked her finger _three_ times trying to mend the same tear in Papa’s shirt before she gave up and put it down. There was no point in bleeding _all over the work_ —think of the difficulty of getting bloodstains out of _good cotton_!! And indeed, just because she was being _rather silly_ was no reason—but of course. Sometimes one simply couldn’t _help_ but be _a little bit foolish._

When he got home, she was going to have to tell her father that Timothy had proposed to her.

And that she had said no.

There was really _no way around it_. He was bound to notice that Timothy no longer came to call on her, and, _eventually,_ it would be become _very clear_ that she had not married him.

And she was twenty six years old and _rather plain._ It was _vanishingly_ unlikely that any _other_ gentlemen were going to _turn up_ , so the saying went, and propose marriage!! The only other unmarried gentlemen who were even _remotely_ eligible were really _too old to contemplate!_

Kitty picked up the shirt again, and then put it down. She still did not think her nerves were in _any condition_ to sew. Perhaps it would be better to tidy the parlor—Papa did hate to find the parlor _all in a shambles_ , and the Ladies Circle had met there in the morning and Mrs. Pemperton-Smythe had left a _profusion_ of biscuit crumbs all down the side of the settee, and pulled off the antimacassars because she wanted to admire the lace.  The painted fans above the mantle had been taken down, too—not _frivolously,_ of course, but because Mrs. Templeton had _inquired especially_ about the Classical Scene. And of course a few of the knickknacks had been moved, and Papa was _so particular_ about where the ormolu clock was on the sideboard.

She stood up and bustled into the parlor, but even after a furious fifteen minutes of work she didn’t feel sufficiently settled to return to her needlework. She hummed down to the kitchen then, next, and narrowly avoided ruining their meals for the week with over-industriousness. The bedlinens had all been washed two days before and were not due to be changed for another week, the dusting had been done _precisely up to standard,_ even in Mr. Climpson’s study, and all the deliveries had occurred just on schedule, so there were no shops to call upon in indignation.

Kitty tried to write a letter to her Cousin Winifred, then, but gave it up as _completely hopeless_ after the third blotting incident only a few lines in.

 

_“Katherine, I would like to make you an offer of marriage.”_

_She was supposed to say yes. This was the moment when she was supposed to say it: yes, and thank you. Her mouth simply would not open to say that word. He was looking at her, face calmly certain that she was about to, and she_ couldn’t.

 _Frantically, she reached for— In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could_  feel  _gratitude, I would now thank you._

 _No, that wouldn’t do_ at all!! _Kitty could not think of a single scene in Shakespeare where a proposal was refused courteously; Measure for Measure, Twelfth Night, they all seemed extremely_ rude _and possibly_ mocking. _Not that Timothy would_ know _she had been quoting Shakespeare, but she didn’t think—oh._

 _All that raced through her head was_ my heart is mute, my heart is mute.

 _But she had to say_ something!! _She ought to say yes, she really ought to, but she_ couldn’t _and so she would need to say something else._

“ _Timothy, I am very sorry, but I cannot accept.”_

 _Had that been her? It had certainly_ sounded _like her voice, but she was not_ conscious of choosing to say it!

_Timothy blinked, eyes guileless and slightly confused. “What?”_

_“I_ cannot _accept your offer of marriage. I am_  terribly _sorry.” She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her eyes. She thought she might faint._

_“I see.”_

_She had_ no idea _what to do next, and she got the impression that_ he didn’t either. _One of them would need to leave—or rather,_ Timothy _would need to leave, since it was_ her home _and she had nowhere else to go! And she didn’t feel_ quite right _about signaling that he_ _ought to leave now, right after_ refusing his proposal!! _And yet, he might feel as if he_ oughtn’t to _leave either, so would it be kinder to simply_ speed up the process _and suggest that he could go?_

 _She hesitated on the verge of opening her mouth. It would be so dreadful to say_ the wrong thing! _And yet, of course, there was a_ certain freedom _in the idea that she could say nearly anything!! She did not anticipate_ a great many future interactions with Timothy _, after she had rejected his offer of marriage!! Why, it was possible she would_ never see him again, _and while that did not mean she was entitled to be_ less than polite _,_ _it meant that his opinion of her was_ largely immaterial. _My good opinion, once lost, is lost… but no, she needn't heed Timothy’s opinion of her, she needn’t even_ know it.

 _“I_ would not be offended, _Mr. Worthorpe, if you needed to_ continue _with the business of your day—I know that you are_ very busy _around this time of year!”_

_“Ah. Yes. Of course. Pray excuse me, Miss Climpson, but I should in fact—yes. Goodbye, and give, uh, give my best wishes to your father.”_

_“Of_ course, _Mr. Worthorpe.”_

And then he had left. Just like that.

 

It was _possible_ that, with _great effort_ , she _might_ be able to unpick all of these stitches and turn this yarn into something useful. Kitty bit her lip and dug her fingers into the knitting she’d spent the last hour trying to do.

What was she going to do? What was going to happen to her?

She could run away and become a performer in a dance troupe! She could take up missionary work in _deepest China_! She could—she could become a paid companion to a miserable old woman who would treat her cruelly and _ignore her comfort_. She could fall on hard times and bad company. She could become a VULGAR OLD SPINSTER, good for _nothing_ but the mockery of young people.

She could say yes to Timothy.

But she _couldn’t._ She simply _couldn’t._ And furthermore, it was entirely possible that _he_ would no longer have _her!_ Not every man was placidly glad to marry a lady who had _refused his proposal._

Although she had a _sinking feeling_ that Timothy was _just that sort of person._

But that was immaterial! She was not going to marry him! She had made up her mind!

Or perhaps she was simply _being cowardly,_ and she ought to _bring herself_ to say yes. Why, it was _childish_ and _rather selfish_ to think that she ought to have everything _just as she liked it_ , and compromises were her _Christian duty,_ when one thought about it.

Or were they.

Kitty resolutely put down the mess of knitting, fetched her hat, and marched out the door toward the church.

The church was empty. This was not really _odd,_ since it was a Thursday afternoon, and not a time of _pressing religious significance._ But it still felt a little bit, well, _strange,_ to be alone in the pews. Not that it was _the first time she had been so!_ But the occasions were rare.

Kitty knelt down and let the familiar words tumble out of her mouth. “O God, by whom the meek are guided in judgment, and light  _riseth_  up in darkness for the godly: Grant us, in all our doubts and uncertainties, the grace to ask what  _thou_ __wouldest__  have us to do, that the Spirit of wisdom may save us from all false choices, and that in  _thy_  light we may see light, and in  _thy_  straight path may not stumble; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  _Amen.”_

There was a pause. “I do not think it would be _right_ , to marry him when I—I know that I would _not be doing it for the right reasons_. And I know that my conscience… that I am being _guided_.”

The church was quiet and dim. Kitty closed her eyes. “But am I being _guided_ or am I being _selfish_ and _willful_? Do I think that this is the _proper choice_ or just _the one I want to make?_ ”

She could say, fully truthfully, if anyone asked, that she felt a palpable _pang_ of her deepest feelings. But _anyone_ was not asking, the Almighty was.

It was _wrong_ to lie to anyone, but there could be little _more_ wrong than lying in a church, to God. Kitty tipped her head back and stared up into the shadows of the roof.

“I don’t _want_ to marry him. I pity him, and if I _did_ marry him I am sure I should be _utterly miserable_ , and so should he. I _won’t_ marry him. And perhaps that _is_ selfish but I don’t think anyone is hurt by it _but myself_ , and so I don’t think that can be really _wrong._ ”

The church was silent and dim, beams of light catching dust in the air, and the scent of beeswax rising from the pews. Up at the altar, the deep blue of Advent and the purple of Lent had gone, and now it was all in white, awaiting Ascension. 

"It is _not_ a false choice and I am _not going to marry him._ " 

Kitty stood up, bowed to the Sanctuary, and left the church.

As she strode down the path toward the gate and home, she  _could not help_ but notice a dart of motion out of the corner of her eye--motion by the rectory. She had been _sure_ , however, that the vicar was _out_ at this time on a Thursday afternoon, and she had not seen Mrs. Chambers on her way into the church. 

She stopped, and stepped backward. There it was again; it was the hem of a skirt that had caught her eye, the hem of a skirt moving in the southeast window of the rectory, a skirt being worn by Mrs. Boddlethwaite, she was sure of it. The pattern was really  _unmistakable,_  and she knew _for a fact_ that the dress was unique in the village.Kitty frowned. She could not think of _any good reason_ why Mrs. Boddlethwaite should be in the rectory on a Thursday afternoon, unless she was assisting the vicar’s wife—but Mrs. Chambers was _nowhere in evidence._ So why?

Kitty knew that she could, at times, suffer from the _sin of inquisitiveness_. If this was _private business_ , she would not of course wish to _interfere_. And really, there were plenty of reasons to be in the rectory—she might simply be leaving a message for Mrs. Chambers, or be planning to assist with the church fête coming up and looking for the best place to store things, or… or checking for birds’ nests…

There was _no good reason_ Kitty could think of for Mrs. Boddlethwaite to be in the rectory, none _whatsoever_. And that window, Kitty was  _nearly certain,_ was the window to Mr. Chambers's office. No one should ever have been  _in the vicar's office without the vicar!!_

Perhaps it would not be  _interfering_ to simply go over and look  _ever so slightly closer_ at what she had seen. Or thought she had seen! She would really just be  _checking_ that her eyes were not, as the saying went,  _playing tricks on her!_ It would be wrong  _not_ to confirm, because she would not wish to think  _ill_ of anybody. 'A little learning is a dangerous thing,' after all! She sidled over toward the rectory. If Mrs. Boddlethwaite  _was_ there, should she say something? Ask her  _what she had been doing_ _?_ That would seem terribly rude. 

Once she was nearer to the rectory she swung around, crossing the garden and approaching the house from the west, where there were a set of large French doors opening from the garden into the music room that was next to the vicar's study. Sure enough, just as she was on the threshold of the house, Mrs. Boddlethwaite came out of the study and into the music room.

Kitty went up to the French door, opened it, and went inside.

Half an hour later, her time, she thought, had been  _well spent._ Feeling rather more satisfied, she returned to the house and the _ruins_ of her knitting. A little patience, and the wool would be  _quite good again._

 

The knitting occupied her for some time; then preparing supper. But finally, it was just after half past six and she could hear her father's steps at the door.

"Did you hear, Katherine, that the missing money from the church fête fund has been located? It seemed it had simply fallen down behind the vicar's desk! A relief for all involved, to be sure."

"That is  _excellent_ news, Papa; here, let me take your coat."

“Thank you." He paused for a moment, once his coat and hat were off, and turned to look at her. "Has Mr. Worthorpe been here today, Katherine? He gave me to understand that, ah—well, I thought he might perhaps have called, and that I might be able to congratulate you.”

“No, Papa, I am sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize, Kit—perhaps he shall call tomorrow, I am sure he is a busy man at this time of the season.”

“Papa, he _did_ call. And I am sorry, but you _have no cause_ to congratulate me.”

“Katherine, I think I must be misunderstanding you.” His brow was furrowed in confusion. “Mr. Worthorpe cannot have proposed—and you declined?”

She looked down and clenched her hands together. “Papa, I am _very_ sorry, but there is little more I can say. Mr. Worthorpe proposed and I refused his offer of marriage.”

“I see.” He hesitated slightly. “You know, Kit, that when—that is to say, there is not going to be a great deal to inherit. I would prefer to see you better looked after, when I am gone.”

“Papa, there is _no need_ to worry in such a fashion! Why, I am quite _handy_ , you know. I have so much experience managing Aunt Winifred, and her _little quirks_ , why, I should think I would be quite _in demand_ among elderly ladies who need a friendly face about them!”

“I do not like to think of my daughter engaging in a _trade_ , when she could be a happily married wife of a gentleman, instead.”

Kitty’s nails dug into her palms. “No, papa. Not happily.”

He peered at her closely. She said nothing more. 

“Hmm. Tea, if you please, Katherine. You have always been able to get the most out of a teapot.”   

* * *

 “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?  You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart!” –Jane Eyre

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide to all! Because I just can't help myself, I'm pretty sure green as a liturgical color for Ordinary Time didn't come into use in the Anglican Catholic church until 1903, but it's entirely possible I messed up some of the details because I am... not even slightly Catholic, so if someone has more precise knowledge of the liturgical colors for May 3rd, 1888, or reads enough Latin to translate the Tridentine Missal of 1570, hit me up. Her name is also definitely Katherine Alexandra Climpson, but this was the ao3 tag that popped up!


End file.
